#between tracks

Daniel sat behind the desk, flipping through a stack of paperwork, while Camille occupied the chair across from him, slowly turning side to side despite his previous pleas not to. 

The chair creaked under its hinges, and Daniel ignored it the first time. By the second, he finally spoke up, not looking up from the paper.

"Camille."

"What?" She asked, scanning around the room. 

"Stop."

She rocked one more time, the chair creaking out again. Daniel groaned, finally looking up through the glasses that sat on his nose. 

"Please."

Camille sighed loudly, stopping, then leaning forward, resting her elbows on the desk and picking up random pieces of paper that were sprawled across.

"Please don't mess with that," Daniel said, snatching one of the papers from her.

Camille's jaw dropped dramatically, as if he had just personally offended her. "You know, you really are a control freak." 

"And you're nosy."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I wouldn't say that."

"I'm sure you wouldn't," Daniel replied, lowering his attention back to the papers in front of him.

Camille leaned back in the rolling chair, gazing up at the clock above Daniel's head, reading 11:14 a.m. For about thirty seconds, the office was quiet again. 

Outside the room, she could hear distant phones ringing and assistants talking while walking down the hall, holding folders and papers as they passed by the open door.

"How much longer until Vinny gets here?"

Daniel flipped his wrist, glancing down at the golden watch.

"Sixteen minutes."

She groaned, slumping lower into the chair.

Daniel didn't even bother responding. The small smile on his face told her he'd heard enough of her complaints.

A knock sounded beside the open door, Daniel's publicist standing in the entrance holding a manila folder clutched against her chest. She gave Camille a soft, apologetic smile, like she already knew exactly how this conversation was going to go.

Camille rolled her eyes the second she spotted the folder.

The publicist welcomed herself in, lowering herself into the open seat across from the two. "Just give me five minutes."

Daniel finally looked up and smirked, seeing Camille's annoyance. He slid the glasses off his face, setting them upside down on the desk and getting comfortable in the chair, crossing his arms.

"I just wanted to go over our plan for January," the publicist said, sliding off the paper clip from the folder and taking out the contents inside. "A few screenings, press appearances, interviews, just the norm."

"I hate the norm already," Camille retorted.

Daniel laughed, eyeing the papers she was laying across the desk. "Exciting," he said sarcastically.

The publicist slid a board across with a collection of photographs that had been taped together in a rough collage—old Hollywood actors, orange and yellow magazine cutouts, designer advertisements, and red pen marked up along the whole thing. 

"This is Interview's markup for the shoot on the 7th."

Camille and Daniel shared the board in the middle, examining it while she flipped through the planner beside her.

The publicist stopped, remembering something mid-thought. "Did you guys approve People?"

"They were all terrible," Camille complained.

Daniel scoffed and handed the woman a paper back of a rough draft of a cover with a photo of Daniel and Camille on the front. "Yes, we did. Here."

The woman took it, smiling, and rummaged through the rest of the papers.

I'll remind you, guys, later, but we have a screening on the 9th, an interview on the 12th," she flipped to the last page, turning her attention to Daniel. "Oh—and Daniel, you'll be in LA on the 14th for the audition."

Daniel only nodded, beginning to clean up his area to leave for the day. Camille leaned forward to look at the planner beside the folder, open to December on the left and January on the right, with only five days crossed out of December.

The rest of the day was free, at least for Daniel.

"There's nothing else for today?" Camille asked.

The publicist gathered her things, rising from the chair and grabbing the folder again. "For Daniel? No."

"And me?"

The woman smiled. "You'll have to ask Evelyn."

She waved, thanking them for their time, and slipped back out the open door. 

Daniel grabbed an unstapled stack of a script, hitting the bottom of the table to get all the pages even. 

"Vinny should be here."

Camille grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and stood up. She was smiling, almost subconsciously, lost somewhere in her own thoughts.

Daniel looked up from the script, watching her expression. "Someone's in a smiley mood today."

The comment immediately wiped the smile from her face. 

"No I'm not."

"You're smiling right now."

She caught her expression in the reflection of the window, seeing that her smirk had somehow landed right back on her face.

"All I've done is complain today," she continued to try to argue.

"I know."

"Then how am I 'smiley'?" she said, trying to mock him dramatically. 

Daniel thought about it for a moment. "I don't know."

He returned his attention to the script in front of him. "But you are."

Camille rolled her eyes, reaching for the office door.

"Bye, Daniel."

"See you."

She almost made it out into the hallway when his voice stopped her again. 

"Try to enjoy your afternoon." 

She turned and huffed, continuing to leave and just hollering back once she was out of the door.

"You say that like it's a rare thing!"

She walked down the hall, eyeing Vinny at the end, standing next to the elevator. Vinny smiled back at her, hearing their faint conversation from down the hallway. He pressed the button for the elevator, it lighting up before the doors opened. He left his hand out, offering her to step in first.

✶ ݁ ˖

After verifying with Evelyn, Camille did, in fact, have a free afternoon. 

Her first thought was shopping, a pastime she barely had time for these days. Shopping was always difficult for her, though. Vinny would have to ask the owners to clear out every store beforehand, and even then, he still would have to spend the entire visit guarding the door. It wasn't worth the trouble most days.

Camille stared out the car window as Manhattan drifted past. 

"Where are we headed?" Vinny asked.

She thought about it for a long moment. Most stores were a nightmare, but a record store was different. Most people didn't expect to see America's Sweetheart shopping at a record store, and if they did, most were too busy walking the streets of New York to care. 

"The record store," Camille finally answered.

Vinny smiled back into the review mirror. "The one on sixth?"

Camille nodded and continued to watch the winter scenery of the city. The thing she loved so much about New York in the winter was that no matter how much blue and white was draped over every December, the city never lost its warmth. 

Yellow taxis would pass, orange neon signs would flicker, and an open door from a bar would spill the red glow from the lights inside. The city never stayed cold for long.

✶ ݁ ˖

A little bell chimed above Camille as she stepped inside.

The warm air immediately hit, replacing the winter cold. The store smelled of cardboard and plastic, along with cardamom and cedar wood from a candle in the back.

Rows of records stretched from wall to wall, the colorful sleeves of each album stuffed into bins, alphabetically categorized. The familiar crackle of a record connected to a speaker in the corner accompanied whatever was spinning on a player beside the counter. 

The second she walked in, the two employees stopped their banter behind the counter, watching her every move and breath now like she was an extinct animal seen in the wild again. 

When Camille first noticed them, she flashed a smile and said hello. The teenagers sat for a long moment, jaws still wide open, not saying anything, before scrambling to welcome her in.

"Could we get an autograph?" the younger girl blurted.

Camille laughed under her breath, nodding. "Of course, I'll sign it at the checkout."

She slipped her hands into the pockets of her large coat, now making her way towards one of the nearest bins, flipping through absentmindedly. 

The records flipped past her fingertips, one by one. She'd occasionally pull out a record, examine the cover, and slip it back into the bin. Her favorite part was always browsing, not necessarily buying.

She found herself at a bin with a paper slip titled "A" above. She searched through about four records, finally pulling out Arrival by ABBA. Dancing Queen had always been a guilty pleasure for her. 

She examined the record, turning it over to read the track list on the back.

"I didn't take you for an ABBA fan," a familiar voice chimed behind her.

Camille snapped around, immediately recognizing who it was. Michael. Part of her was confused why he was here, but then she remembered the record still in her hand.

"I'm—I'm not," she stumbled, turning to shove the record back in the bin again. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"You do realize this is a record store, right? I should be asking you that."

Camille nodded, trying to seem unconvinced and moving on to her next question. "How did you get past Vinny?"

"I asked politely."

"You asked politely?"

"Yes," Michael said, watching her so intently it almost made her nervous.

Camille backed away, now making it to the "B" section.

"Good to know that's all it takes from my security."

Michael let out a chuckle, looking through the bin beside her for records of his own.

Camille turned, picking up a Billy Joel album. 

"You know, most people say hi before judging someone's music taste."

"Hello, Camille," Michael responded, gazing at her like his introduction meant something now.

He pulled out All 'n All from the bin titled "bestsellers", slipping the plastic-wrapped record in between his arm and side, continuing to browse.

"And for the record," Michael continued. "I love Dancing Queen."

"Michael Jackson likes Dancing Queen."

"Camille Beaumont likes Dancing Queen," Michael restated, shrugging with a smirk.

Camille shook her head, returning her attention to the records in front of her. For a while, neither of them said much. They moved through each aisle, occasionally showing each other vinyls and exchanging brief opinions on each one. 

Michael scanned each record with insane meticulousness, reading the track list with such intent like there was something hidden within the grooves of the vinyl.

Camille found herself examining him more than the music in front of her. Never in an obvious way, but just enough of a glance that she noticed the soft, unconscious sway he'd adopt when a song came through the speakers he liked.

Once they came to the last aisle, she turned to him, glancing at the albums tucked under his arm.

"What'd you find?"

"Marvin Gaye," Michael said, flipping the record towards her. "And Earth, Wind, and Fire."

"Not bad," Camille laughed.

Michael pointed to the records she was holding. "And you?"

"We got Billy Joel," she replied, lifting and showing it off, then moving to the next. "And Simple Dreams."

"Linda Ronstadt," Michael said, nodding. "Very you."

"Very me?" Camille laughed. "You don't even know me."

"I know you enough."

"Enough from two conversations?"

"Three," Michael corrected. "The album after party, Richard's, and now."

A small smile tugged at her lips. "Still not enough."

They walked together towards the front counter, the teenage girls practically fawning over seeing Michael Jackson and Camille Beaumont casually shop.

They both checked out, signed a few autographs, and sat through about 5 minutes of non-stop questions from each of the girls before finally making it to the door. For fans, they were actually extremely respectful. 

They both decided Camille would leave first, Michael following a few minutes later in the opposite direction, so it didn't look suspicious. Camille adjusted the paper bag beneath her arm.

"Well," she contentedly sighed. "Thank you for record shopping with me, even if it was unprecedented."

"Thank you for giving me another chance."

Camille smiled, remembering the promise he made last weekend. 

"Bye, Michael."

Just as she turned to grab the door, he stopped her. 

"Camille." She glanced back at him. "Actually—are you busy?"

Camille stopped, confused. "I mean, I guess not. Why?"

"I know a really good chicken place a few blocks away," Michael smirked.